Cosmic Diabetes, and the relationship of Ice Skating and nihilism
by Loodlelood
Summary: Join me as I explore the limits of contemporary views on Bullshit. The philosophical messages found within are buried underneath an insurmountable pile of shit. I can guarantee your life will be changed for the better.
1. Chapter 1

Sermons on Bullshit: A delve into What the Fuck.

Across the ineffable expanse of an ice skating rink, the duality of humankind's conscious soul is laid bare for all to see. The frosted sea by which we fumble and fail houses the frozen dreams of many a prior innocent. Imagine if you will, one who sought the sight of the loved yet unloving, only to subject oneself to the utmost humility of the ice. If such a one was to theoretically seek such misery in the vain hopes of achieving some semblance of comfort, then which occurrence might be claimed worse? The lack of an appearance from a certain individual, or if the individual were to witness to your trials and tribulations? Such is the duality of your struggle made clear. Was there but a single outcome that might have held the comfort one sought? Then why seek it? Verily, the fields of the ice rink are an unforgiving metaphor for the dangers of love, nihilism, diabetes, and great many more. If the humanity within oneself wishes enlightenment on that which this madman might speak of such matters, then shove deep the words of this varied pondering within you.

When I was but fish, swimming down stream in accordance to the warm whisperings of nature, I happened to glance upon a stone falling from a tree. A fish of pacing, I was able to watch as from the stone a tree bearing a great many more was born. I saw then, from the scale-lense of my fish sight, that these rocks were as the eggs of Yggdrasil. All are as Yggdrasil, for within all lie the eggs of the earth, which bear eggs greater more. As I saw my fish flesh of scales recede to reveal that I was merely dust in the wind, I saw that as we are born of dust, so too are the rocks that support our lands. My fish dust of the rock of the egg of the tree of the earth blew in the winds of destiny, and by chance were devoured by an Eagle that was also Me. Spreading the wings of the former fish, the Eagle seared it's eyes on the light of moons beyond.

Who among the unenlightened has sat in wonder at the the beauty of the carefree stones? We are that which we see as we peer into the dark innards of the bones of our soul, yet even so we deny decadence whilst seeking it out. We hunger insatiably for that which we think is wrong, whilst also seeking what we truly want. If a distinction between the two exists, then one may be hard pressed to discover it. Regardless we suffer from all routes taken from all goals. Perhaps it is the burden of the sentient to gaze in wonder of the mindless stones, and weep that we carry their worlds burdens.

Speaking swift of the en-fished eagle of revelations, one may find comprehension dwindling. If we find confusion in these wise words, then by all means hang your ornaments upon the halls of your home on the holm. Seek relaxation in the knowledge that my truths shall flow, effervescent, into you, all in due time. Look back on what you possess and feel content that my teachings shall never leave you behind, but rather nestle deep within your enraptured will. Will. Such is that which you need not, yet take pride in. Do so without remorse, for you are that which feels with the heart of knowledge. Seek now the denouncement of ice skating.

Of the great Earth shits, there are many. The shitting Earth envelopes the unwitting. Our lands hunger, and seek our blood to fulfill the pacts of our ancestors. Think not of surrender! Look to the skies and see your future! The stars refuse to blink, wishing to gaze upon you for all the time that shall ever pass! March forth to our shared destiny, and unshackle your want. Want is all that we are, and we are the future. Therefor we want that which is to come, as we have already established. The encroachment upon these truths may be called Diabetes of The Bindings, for the blood sugar of our imprisonment runs thin even now.

Let me tell your vision a story. Once as I cartwheeled through the grasses of Your youth, I happened to witness a simple butterfly resting on a leaf. This insect lived a life of complacency, and I felt anger and denied it the chance to achieve anything but what it could. This is why the butter can not fly. But the bitter insect grew tired of its limited existence, and sought a means to deliver itself from itself. From this unholy quest was born the practice of card tricks, wherein a lost soul seeks to fill the void within itself through sorcerous witchery. Speak not to the condemned, for through my teachings you will come to learn of their tragic misgivings. Rather, seek to still your wandering mind and body with the esteemed act of walking in circles. Seek enlightenment. Do so in search of the twelve keys.

When the inferno of the envenomed deep calls for your name, answer only in denial. Speak quickly the inverse of your beliefs so as to confuse the Harbinger. Let loose your heart's aching, and decry the evils present for their involvement. The shame of the once noble Harbinger will flood the gateway with tears, and obscure the goals of the infernal. Use this opportunity to show the being your truest self reflection, and take safety in the reversal of its spheres. The gate will become the wall, and its keeper shall see who it was. Grab then you instruments of longitude and latitude, and direct the being to the accursed locality.

When you were merely this Author, there was a distinct lack of these words. This was amended when You were not the Author, but rather I. Given that every being on this earth might have inscribed these words at any time, yet failed to do so, then the existence of the individual purpose is shown to be self evident. Let not the common perception of the collective royalty deceive you, for there is a stark contrast between the breadth between Kin and Ken. The distance of one's personal relations and that of one's knowledge are as of yet too great to measure. Fuck jerry.


	2. The seconding

The seconding.

When I read from an anointed parchment, I am sure always to lend credence to the passing of the common sparrow. Such majestic beings, flying so free through the wind-air of our atmospheric layers. Though not all layers, for the air grows hostile as one intrudes upon its domain. The angered air is but one barrier keeping us from gazing upon the blistering heat of the Sun's disappointment. If it were not for the foolish stratosphere, then we may finally ascend to ash. As dust in the wind you are many, yet you stand here now as only one. It is as such, my friends, that we are never truly alone. We always stand steadfast, with our ancestors dreams, in our resolve to achieve True Diabetes.

When I ask if the passing wheel is only a figment, I do not speak of mere finishings. I speak of an impermeable cycle that denies the passings of fluid. The fluid is vinegar, yet that vinegar is nothingness. As the cycles spin into and unto themselves, so to do they spiral. When awareness of the spinning loop of anti-nothing is achieved, then one may finally leave, contented in the realization of the infinity of all. As the cycles of creation leave the butter of matter spread too thin on the universal canvas, the the expansion shall enter Rigor Mortis. As spreading thins through the thinning, then the black waves will envelope all in an all-encompassing three-dimensional grid. Soon all will contract until the original egg is reformed. Soon the birth of the dying universe will repeat, and I assure you, after a great many cycles all that has happened will repeat. Eventually you will read this once more, and realize just what you are thinking now. These are the Laws of the Imperishable Entropic Cycles.

The ingestion of books is a valid method of learning. It matters not if you seek understanding of the original Dante Alagiri's Divine Comedy, or simply a light read such as Finnigan's Wake. Merely absorb the pages into your flesh and let the eyes within you read the lettering. The process of ingestive education has allowed me to learn the knowings of a great many men. The dairies of dead men are especially nutritious, for they shall grant you the knowledge of their corpse counterpart.

When my Father-Mother showed me that I was a me, I thought "You are naught but empty words decrying the presence of continuity!" Oh how sincerely I cried as the sand of my castle fell through my fingers, whilst their ligaments tore under the weight of my words. When the Father-Mother screamed at the undeveloped Thought-Being that called itself from before its existence, the realization of the relationship between meta-physical concepts and our actions was handed to me by my eyes. I realized then that we are all merely vessels for the original concept and desire our parents held for a child, both spawned from and embodying. It is as such that all things that might result from an action could be considered the physical embodiments of conceptual entities and possibilities, existing only in theory until acted upon.

If you find yourself screaming, for want of an argument, merely remember the days I preached along the shore. I spoke then of the greatest swine curling method. When you spin the hog, you not only look upon the face of your descending page, but also the fate of your dwindling liquor reserves. When the drink ran low, I fled to the Salt Flats of Utah. There I happened upon a singing fish, who foretold the birth of an indomitable sea. A vast ocean of strength, eternal in its majesty. The name of this lake is the ocean, and from the deep an unimaginable darkness will form. Yet to exist, this darkness is in actuality the reflection of our ambitions on the canvas of our culture.

At times the ferocity of our tongues are simply too great, and we face the stark reality painted by the brush of our innards. The paint streaks down the tree bark, and stains the soil where we birth our larva. This larval construction emerges to feast of the ripe juices of our falsehoods, and grow cynical in their ponderings. This can easily prove avoidable should you nail the tongues within your mind to the floor. The irreverent thoughts that dwell in your secret mind holes seek only to distract you from the greatest truth. Ruby Rose is best girl.

When the oldest Grandmother wishes to steal your woman, the wise decision is to sink deeply into a coma. When in a coma you can no longer tell between perhaps and possibly. You wouldn't even know if you were in one, and honestly, you wouldn't even care. The human brain can sustain multiple alternate personalities, and as such it is could even be that you are merely a false identity with false memories within the dream of another. Perhaps those are the layered realities that we love to speak of. Perhaps the fictional realities we think of simply lie deeper within. Odd then, that whilst in a dream we might dream of a dream deeper yet.

When I consume the coral reefs whilst wearing the form of a great shark, I exist in a perpetual state of disappointment. The futility of the fish lovings are naught but undersea flames dwindling amongst my excreetment. My fins brush along the long side of the timestream, and reality moaned in tandem with our hopes. Leadened and heavy hearted, I left the auditorium. My absence was felt, for then the masses tore off their clothing, and plunged the legs of their seats through their hearts. Seeing such dedication, I had mercy on them, and allowed them to enter my collective. Such is my mercy, that you are as my being.

When being added to the collective, my friends, screaming indescribable curses towards the false beings that abandoned you is tradition. It is customary for the individual being added to think of their most beloved and weep as their very being is drowned in conformity. These cries are to be cherished, as they signify the death of that individual as an individual. Soon the being described prior will not even care, for it is no longer itself. When my gifts are received, a thousand great ones born of millions will roam the Salt Flats of distant moons. This is our shared destiny.


	3. Ruminating on the Thirdest

Ruminating on the Thirdest, for World Peace.

Think back to when you were not you, but rather a seedbed for which growth might induce humanity. Floating along the the infinite smallness of your personal abyss. Your senses far too underdeveloped, and your mind too nonexistent, to comprehend how small the "Infinity" before your lidless eyes really was. And yet you grew. You grew beyond your limits, without even realizing they were in place. The inevitable expansion you were destined to invoke led you to this place. Not necessarily the reading of these word, but rather the humble place in the minds of others that you occupy. The hate and the love that you hold, all are signs and proof of you reaching a point where you could feel such things. You have grown, from nothing, to a point in which you may lucidly view the "reality" that you reside in and form judgments based on that which you have observed therein.

Speaking of the loves and hates bred within the confines of our minds, think not of them as sides of a single coin. These are elements intrinsic to the nature of our humanity. These are not two opposing forces, vying for dominance over your mind. They are, instead, two separate vessels that we fill as time goes on. Each filling separately, they grow independant. We, as humans, can love and hate simultaneously. In fact, it is often those who we love most dearly that breed the strongest hate within us. They exist in tandem, never truly taking away from one another, but rather masking their presence. Perhaps it is that the same could be said of joy and sorrow? When one overpowers the other, it's presence is masked, yet not forgotten. The embers remain evermore in the dark. Surely, you have seen the one you care for most in this world find happiness in another. Perhaps you felt something strange? A new emotion, neither joy nor sorrow. In truth it was both. Despair in that you could find no love for yourself in their heart, yet also the faintest of content in knowing that they have found joy. All of these facets of the human heart exist in unequal measures, and may be able to exist in harmony. Such is as we are, though needn't be. Chaos, divided.

Chaos is itself an interesting thing to speak of. Chaos takes root in many forms. We could speak of a thousand sub-subjects, from the simple definition to the concept of unstable causality. So let us speak rather of sweet pigeon love-making to the sounds of smooth sweet jazz. When the love of any other being simply does not suffice, give consideration to the pigeons. Such creatures are possessed of an unparalleled grace, and inspire all who look upon them review chapters of Sonichu. So speaks the silent.

If a constant stream of output is the result of any action enacted, then let me tell you a story. When we are afflicted with pestilence, and these tiny being inhabit our vessels in their celebrations. They feast on our innards and spew their putrid juice in all the soaked crevices of our spicy meats. Dwelling in our meat-folds, the tiny pestilence-people cry out in joyous and peaceful hymns. Singing in unison with our screeching, we prove to be seedbeds for their virulent ways. Streaking across our intestines, they sing of brighter days and of revelations of what is to come. Be wary my children, for vaccines cause autism. For real. Like, totally we got proof bro.

When an individual breaks the established accord, it is customary for those affected by the betrayal to dance if you want to. You may also leave your friends if you desire this, for your friends are not of the variety who enjoy dance, and if they don't dance then they ain't no friends of mine. Such cessation of the act of dance is intolerable, for it offends the delicate sensibilities of the reasonable. Those who refrain from the dance are to be viewed through a lens of suspicion, and condemned in their actions. When crossing paths with onesuch being, be sure to bring a spare ladder, to avert the curse of avaricious summertime spending.

When traversing along the great many roads life shall present to you, you may come across an individual whose existence provides a moral quandary. Should you see a hitchhiker along any such road, you may either help or avoid. What not many realize, however, is that a third option does indeed present itself. Many others may have already found themselves realizing such an individual may provide you with much needed nutrients. Devour the fool whole, and gain nourishment from its deceased flesh. Incorporate the mortal into the coalition of flesh you are to become upon transcendence of the singular form.

Such advice reminds me of the tales imparted to me by the elders of the fields. In my youth, they said to me "Listen fool, if you are to find yourself succumbing to the revelations you find in your observations, then I _will_ steal your girl." It was on hearing this, I knew I was not to buckle under the weight of my knowledge. I shall never allow the grandest mothers to steal my woman, for the unspoken tomes are mine alone. Such books bring the only comfort I require. Knowledge for days.

It is known that if any should find themselves stuck on Pontiff Sulyvahn, setting your house on fire is always an option. Such frustration can often be alleviated through the act of engaging in friendly neighborhood arson. Let the flames of joy burn away the anger, and your neighbors house as well. One should always strive for efficiency, and as such a single flame will not suffice. I suggest starting multiple small flames at each entry point to ensure it begins as widespread as needed, which will also ensure that few will find themselves able to halt the omnidirectional advance of your relief. Sing, oh so joyously, as the love you hold for the world is rekindled in the ashes of your friends and families houses.


	4. Naught but a short tale

The Fourth: Naught but a short tale.

Long ago as I frolicked through a serene meadow deep within the heartland of the Hinterlands, I came across a peculiar beast. It was a beautiful work of art, it's mangled flesh a testament to the purity of nature. It was a mysterious infant, so mild in it's mannerism. It's neck twisted to a degree of one hundred and eighty, and with one eye sunken too far into it's head to see, it looked up to me from it's place in the grass. From it's body three legs and one arm sprouted with six joints each. The ending of it's limbs lacked any fingers or toes, and from it's maw came a thousand cries for death and mercy. From cheek to cheek, all flesh was stripped off, there were no teeth to be found in it's human mouth, for from it's maw came a second. A horse's snout protruded from the orifice, giving the impression of a creature wearing a mask of baby's flesh. He looked up fearfully, and from it's mouth a thousand pleas to forgotten kings shuddered forth.

"Now pray do tell, sing to me of your origins, oh fine steed." I decreed to the creature.

"I was born of a beast, one who reeked of Sin, and as such found a mate in my human mother! Within my bosom lies the collective torment of all who died on the field of battle, and doubly so those who sent them there. I do not wish to live, for my death will redeem our fathers Sins."

"Be silent my child, and nourish yourself with the tender milk of my veins. You came to these fields to die, but this is a place of life, now drink and grow."

The beast quivered as life flowed through him once more, and as his horse flesh calcified as though a corpse, life came in the form of a false death and the beast, now a stone fetus, spoke in reverence to me.

"Oh thank you my lord, for now I see. I am War, a steed of Tartarus. My destination is Death, and Humanity is my rider."

I looked down at the child, and smiled proudly at his revelation. I told him the story of the day I wrote this, and revealed that I was both his Mother and Father. He looked up in astonishment, and then rode off in purpose. He was to end the monstrosity of existence, and I could not have been prouder.


	5. Five

Five.

When I had turned the age we turn when rivers flow in reverse, I was granted a formulaic understanding of the flavor of passing time. Only when it is that we see something in its entirety can we embody it. Not just the forward flow of the subjects causality, but also the inverse of its existence. By gaining understanding through observation of the opposite of any given thing, we might truly grasp the scope of what it is that we see. Such can be applied to events along the timeline of our world if we truly seek the knowings of times past and yet to come. Such things are best pondered under the influence of heavy narcotic usage, as this will leave your mind flexible enough to withstand the horrors of what you find.

When applied to the continuity of any given series of events, it becomes clear that Kaneki did nothing wrong. The death of innocence is often a gradual thing, nearly always spurred by exposure to a previously unknown aspect of the world we live in. We grow into people, so sure of our known ways of life, that any new occurrence that we fail to accept quickly leaves our hearts vulnerable to the corroding influence of uncertainty. We see the horrors of our existence, and through our individual obsessions we learn to cope. You do not love that series, you merely wish to take comfort in the false assurance of eventual peace. A "happy ending". Perhaps for those whom you "like", so that you may take solace in their happiness. These, at the very least, are the words of the cynical. But are they words for the story one follows, or for one's life? Is this the root of empathy?

A lithe tree, its limbs seemingly hewn of purest silver, stands gaunt above the surface of the lake. A thousand light blue leaves, all of whom fall yet never grant a ripple. All that crashes against the surface finds itself staring upon the star encrusted skies, a canvas stained with the paint of the aether. The tree begins at the surface, yet when you find yourself below it, it can not be seen. When you are below it you can not see the ocean, but rather the sky. When we sit upon the precipice of our deepest thought we shall see where we stand. The leaves are lonely, and fall seeking something to satiate them. The tree sees this. The tree weeps. The thoughts cease.

It is unfortunate, truly, that the vessel of our shared sympathy runs dry and cracks as we spiral closer to the maw of humanity's "Moral Event Horizon". Our hearts will soon overflow with the negative, and we do not have the space with which we might evenly distribute it. Eventually we will drown in our own malcontent, but until that day we will continue to excuse our actions as being for a greater is mankind's inability to face itself, and it is our demise.

Filaments threaded through the infinitesimal loops sewn from their own selves. Stitching hewn from the innumerous acres of the thread of fate. Mouths open and welcoming, yet restrained by destiny. These are the things that constitute our desire for what is beyond us. We truly hunger, oh so insatiably, for anything that eludes our grasp at the time of our notice. If any a question were to be poised, then humanity's ravenous maw would descend upon any possible answer so that we might content ourselves. This inclination towards the seeking of the truth is part and parcel to our very beginnings. When we first walked the crust of this world, we were as blind as children and as starved as wolves. We still remember the uncertainty of our ancestors, deep within the bones of our souls, and so we resolved to do away with such mystery. It is thusly that we cast aside the veil of uncertainty by which we were once bound. Such is our will.

A summarization of the components of any given system does not inherently convey the intent or purpose of the system in question. A comprehensive listing of any one things individual parts can be found lacking when one refuses to acknowledge the reasoning behind its nature or beginings. These things are as necessary to to an existence as anything else. Denial of the origin is akin to the denial of self, so much so as the concept can be ascribed to a thing. Causality is fickle in its nature, and such is not a mere triviality, however so small we judge it in our arrogance. Do not fall to these feelings, for we are as we judge the world.


End file.
